


Erotic Poultry Stuffing

by Irrelevancy



Series: More than Friends [6]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Fluff and Humor, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22715653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: Marco's life has been hard ever since Benn moved out, because of things like, for one, coming home to Shanks fisting a chicken.Shanks/Marco, Shanks/Marco/Benn, Valentine's Day fic
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Benn Beckmann, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Benn Beckmann
Series: More than Friends [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525001
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	Erotic Poultry Stuffing

**Author's Note:**

> haaaaaappy valentine's day ig here's some fisting!

“Hey babe, won’t you help me in the kitchen?”

It had started with those innocuous words.

Too often these days, Marco found himself practically bent over with the pain of regret—why, he thought bitterly to himself, did he agree to let Benn move out? Stupid, _stupid_ Marco for failing to see the glint of conspiracy in Shanks’ eyes, the twitch of amusement in Benn’s cigarette. Stupid Benn for seeming so _earnest_ with all that, _I want to give you two space_ talk.

Space. It’s not like Shanks wasn’t constantly live-reporting every happening in the Shanks-Marco-now-minus-Benn household back to Benn, through text or call or video. It’s not like they had an extra bedroom now to work with because the third room was still pretty much Benn’s room. It’s not like there was more space _between_ them, in some metaphysical way, because _Benn said_ and _Benn did_ and _Benn wants_ still fell from both their mouths easy and en masse like cereal poured from the box.

All it meant was that Benn was now rarely physically present to mitigate some of Shanks’ worst decisions. That was all Marco’s job now.

Which was how Marco found himself holding a raw chicken between his bare hands, one eye on his slipping sleeve cuff (because Shanks did not give him enough warning before poultry contact was made, dammit) and the other on Shanks. The man was practically slathering his hand in a bowl of herb-speckled butter.

“What the hell—”

“Now pull back that flap of skin a bit,” Shanks said, finally picking up the entire content of the bowl in one yellow-coated hand. Marco hurried to oblige, if only to keep the dangerously dangling end pieces of butter from falling onto the counter. “Perfect. Now I just gotta…”

The speed at which Shanks inserted his hand, knuckle first, under the chicken skin was way too slow. His gaze, staring up through his eyelashes at Marco, was also too… something.

“Oh yeah,” Shanks purred. “Nice and slippery. I read that on the internet, you know, that to get the whole hand in there, you need a _lot_ of lubrication.”

Marco abruptly released the chicken and stepped back from the kitchen counter. Shanks twisted his elbow awkwardly to catch the chicken, knuckles bulging out obscenely from under the pale speckled skin.

“Marco, Marco, I was just _kidding_.” Shanks was the farthest thing from hopeless, always, and whenever Marco made the mistake of believing in Shanks’ pouting _but I only have one hand_ act, he was always the one paying the price. Yet he couldn’t seem to stop paying it. “C’mon, I want to make a nice dinner for you right? To celebrate our first Valentine’s Day since moving in together?”

With a frustrated scrunch of his nose (Marco couldn’t pinch away the building headache), he returned his hand to righting the chicken. He kept a wary eye out for more shenanigans, but Shanks kept the rest of the motions quick, swiping his hand a couple times more under the side flaps of the chicken skin, before rubbing on top of the skin to evenly distribute all the butter.

Then came the chickpea mix. It looked and smelled delicious from seasoning alone, despite the rawness of the legume underneath. Shanks first had to season the inside of the chicken, and chose to do so by thoroughly rubbing down the walls with salt and pepper. With his hand.

When he put his first fistful of chickpeas into the poultry, Shanks _moaned_ , hand disappearing past the carcass.

“This is,” Marco said through gritted teeth, “so stupid.”

“My romantic roast chicken dinner is stupid?” Big-eyed with woe, Shanks secured another fistful of chickpeas. “You don’t appreciate my efforts for love?”

“I don’t appreciate whatever _this_ —” Marco gave the chicken a little shake, and the chickpeas rattled around inside like a decomposable maraca. “—is meant to be. Can you just _pour_ it inside like a regular person?!”

“You vowed to love my idiosyncrasies,” Shanks mourned, unrepentant as the third fistful sank slowly in. He flattened out his palm, inserting and withdrawing his fingers a couple of times from the stuffing. Blinked innocently. “I’m just getting off all the butter from my hand.”

“And have you _finished_?”

“Getting off?”

It’s not like Marco could ever beat Shanks in terms of shamelessness. So, as Shanks was busy cackling in self-amusement, Marco calmly reached for the twine lying on the table that was meant to secure the chicken’s legs together during baking.

So he secured the chicken’s legs together, then released his hold.

“Oh—Ah, I see. Hm.”

“I don’t _just l_ ove your idiosyncrasies,” Marco smirked as he washed his hand in the island sink. Then he leaned across the counter to kiss Shanks oh-so-sweetly on the cheek. “I cherish and support them. Have fun cooking, _babe_.”

He left Shanks standing in their kitchen with a raw whole chicken tied securely around his hand.

“Sorry,” Shanks humbly announced an hour later, after a series of contemplative silences interspersed with dull thumping (Marco could, embarrassingly enough, identify the sound of flesh slapping against all the various surfaces of the kitchen). Marco glanced lazily over the back of the couch, and didn’t bother stifling his snicker when he saw the chicken was still around Shanks’ hand. “You’re right, I should’ve just asked. Won’t you untie the chicken now?”

They were back in the kitchen, snipping Shanks free of the poultry. The skin on Shanks’ fingertips had gone pruney with moisture, and Shanks frowned meekly at it, flexing his hand.

“What the hell,” Marco said dryly, moving Shanks’ hand now over to the sink to wash, _thoroughly_ , under warm water, “was this supposed to achieve?”

“Titillation,” Shanks answered easily enough. “Seduction. But like I said, I'll just ask. Hey Marco.”

The moment Marco released Shanks’ now-clean hand from the flow of water, Shanks used it (still dripping wet) to grab Marco by the nape of his neck. The kiss, once again over the counter, was deep and domineering; marble dug into Marco’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Shanks pulled his head back, grin all giddy teeth.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Won’t you let me fist you?”

* * *

“Hold yourself open now,” Shanks commanded. “I need your help to make this work.”

“I swear to fucking god,” Marco panted, even as he spread precisely as Shanks said to, legs hugged tighter to his chest, “if you even _hint_ at comparing me to that goddamn chicken I will shove my fist down your _throat_ —”

The threat cracked into a cry as Shanks pushed his gathered knuckles past the fluttering muscle of Marco’s hole. His thumb was still outside, resting against his palm, and Shanks, after a thought, pressed the flat of it against Marco’s perineum.

He curved all his fingers and felt all the heat, until the unrelenting build of pressure drew another shudder and cry from Marco beneath him.

Then he straightened his fingers again, only approximately due to the constraining space, and worked from his elbow until the majority of his palm was squeezed into Marco’s tight heat, and the stretch of skin between his thumb and forefinger was hooked snugly against Marco’s rim.

“I—”

Marco’s hands were digging hard into the underside of his thighs, and Shanks leaned over to mouth at the back of a finger. That finger tasted oddly innocent, spared from lewdness somehow.

“More lube?”

The noise of frustrated agreement Marco made was bitten off as his hand went patting against the bed in search for the bottle. In turn, Shanks leaned his torso into Marco’s leg with generous weight. Pushed his hand in just that much more.

“You feel so good around me,” was hummed along with the drumming of some fingertips against Marco’s inner wall. The ring of muscles tensed hard around Shanks’ palm but then so _quickly_ relaxed again, as Shanks worked with the lube already there, rotating his hand this way and that. “Can you feel me? Can you feel all of this?”

Then, spreading his hand completely flat, Shanks turned his arm until his palm was completely up. Spread his fingers too, until Marco kicked (gently) at his shoulders in shaking protest.

“Get your thumb in already,” Marco gasped, as he reached under his leg with the bottle of lube. With very little coordination he squeezed, coating not only Shanks’ hand but also a great stretch of Shanks’ forearm with the clear gel as well. “I— I need—”

Shanks’ hand rotated downward again, thumb tucked into his re-slicked palm. The sound of skin against slippery skin got louder, more resonant as Shanks pushed harder, with more insistence, and Marco’s voice hitched into another cry—

Once that wide point got past the ring the rest went easy, Marco’s rim settling in twitching flutters around Shanks’ wrist and—

“Fuck,” Marco breathed. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Shanks was quick to still his hand, but did not tense.

“Hurts?”

“ _No_ , I—”

The lube tumbled back to get lost among the bedsheets again. Shanks grinned and let his elbow relax, started twisting about again until he’s loosened a whine from Marco’s throat. Then—this wasn’t the easiest thing on his wrist, but Shanks figured it was worth it—he straightened and shimmied up until he could hover over Marco face-to-face.

“I’ll fuck you hard,” he promised, “if you answer one question.”

Shanks has always found something beautiful about the way his lover could always manage to look so turned on and so put upon at the same time, when it came to him. He liked to think it was because of true love.

“Are you _sure_ me preparing that chicken didn’t turn you on at all—”

“Get your filthy hand _out of me_ —”

* * *

Far into the evening found Marco dozed off, barely wiped clean, with Shanks lounging at his side. There was the sound of keys in the front door downstairs, then a familiar gait. Marco only managed to break past the sleepy, fucked-out haze in his mind to make a noise of annoyance when Shanks began pawing at his ass under the sheets again.

Benn only knocked perfunctorily at the bedroom door before he entered, still in his motorcycle jacket.

“Benn,” Marco groaned, when three of Shanks’ fingers found their way inside him again. Didn’t the man have a fucking off button? His best friend just walked into the damn room, for god’s sake. (Sure, they’ve done far worse things at far more exposure in Benn’s presence but it was the principle of the matter.) “You have to move back in. I can’t handle him by myself.”

“Handle, you say,” Shanks added cheerfully. With only the one arm he couldn’t quite prop himself up, so he was mostly leaning his chin on Marco’s shoulder to bear his weight. That meant, in turn, Marco couldn’t exactly shake those fingers in his ass without making Shanks fall over, which was, unfairly, kind of a dick move.

“Do you know what he _did_.”

Benn’s jacket hit the foot of the bed with a thump, as he sighed loudly with a smile just curving his lips. It suddenly occurred to Marco that maybe Shanks wasn’t fingering him _despite_ Benn, but _because_ of Benn.

Sure enough, Shanks was more than happy to remove the offending hand to whip the covers aside, just as Benn got a knee onto the mattress and swung over to settle a comfortable weight down on Marco’s back.

Ground the rough cloth of his jeans forward right between Marco’s legs.

“Oh Marco,” Benn rumbled, his deep smokey voice right up against the sensitive skin of Marco’s ear. “Who do you think helped him prepare all the ingredients in the first place?”

* * *

_BONUS:_

Marco was gagging hard around his dick, but nevertheless Shanks didn’t relent. They had an agreement, after all—no teeth, no need to let him come up for air.

Shanks grinned down at Benn fucking Marco before him. He hadn’t taken off his shirt, his jeans, his _belt_. He was just letting all the coarse cloth and hard edges press red marks right into Marco’s skin as he rolled his hips down, down, down.

“I toldju he’d invite you back,” Shanks snickered. He took the opportunity to time his own hips to snap _up_ , just as Benn’s went down again. Marco yelled, choked, salivated messily all over the base of Shanks’ cock. No teeth.

“You’re the one,” Benn grunted, getting a hand on the small of Marco’s back, pressing down harshly so he could fuck _faster_ , “who proposed the experiment in the first place.”

Pinned so hotly beneath, between, against the two of them, Marco flinched and shivered into orgasm. Neither Shanks nor Benn even halted their motions—in fact, Shanks began to more decisively fuck up into the bruised and fluttering muscles of Marco’s throat. Marco shook harder and harder beneath them, but still—no teeth, no tap-out, not even noises of protest. Just a mouth and ass kept resolutely open for use. It was heart-warming to receive, and the rough treatment itself was the reward.

“We both want you back now.”

“Alright. Then I’ll move back.”

Simple as that. _Marco was easy and Benn was simple_ , was Shanks’ amused little thought to himself. With a hiss of satisfaction, Shanks allowed himself to come, feeling Marco’s ever-generous mouth tongue and suck him through the pleasure. He finally relinquished the weight he was putting on Marco’s head, squeezing instead his fingers into the hollows of Marco’s cheeks.

Left the head of his cock on Marco’s tongue until Benn reached orgasm too. Marco lapped at Shanks with little kitten licks, even as his expression shuddered from the oversensitivity, the sensation of Benn’s release against his already-worked over insides.

 _And I’m just the luckiest bastard here,_ Shanks thought with great satisfaction.

“Hey Benn, let’s see your hand real quick.”

And because Benn could read minds, he was already smirking when he held up his hand. Turned it front, back, then clenched into a fist. Shanks gazed lovingly down at Marco, kissed across Marco’s already-half-closed eyelids with the gentle pad of his thumb. So purely unsuspecting. It really was proof of Marco’s love, he thought, to just take and take like this with absolute faith.

“…Alright. Go ahead.”

**Author's Note:**

> haven't been this horny in a while skdjfnskldjfn THANK YOU SOGGIES AND THE PODCAST AMERICAN SEX FOR GETTING FISTING ON MY MINND
> 
> my [tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/), which i know is just a MDZS tumblr rn but i swear i'm still on my op bullshit


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